Chapter 5 - The Geography of the Docks
The man with the slick ponytail was named Jimmy Vance.
He was thirty-two years old, the nephew of a powerful Providence-based logistics syndicate chief who had been trying to gain a foothold in Boston’s private maritime shipping terminals for five years. Vance was ambitious, reckless, and entirely ignorant of the quiet, violent rules that kept the waterfront stable.
To Vance, Declan Gallagher was an old-fashioned dictator whose grip on the docks was slipping. And in Mave, Vance saw a unique, golden opportunity to humiliate the waterfront boss.
Three days after the confrontation at Table Four, Mave left her morning shift at the Copper Anchor.
The rain had finally stopped, replaced by a biting, bitter frost that turned the puddles on the pier into sheets of black ice. Mave walked down the access road toward the bus stop near Pier 7, her hands jammed deep into her coat pockets.
She didn't see the dark blue sedan parked behind the empty shipping container until she was ten feet away from it.
The passenger door swung open.
Jimmy Vance stepped out onto the gravel, dressed in his expensive beige wool coat, a thin, silver toothpick hanging from his lips. Two heavy-set men in dark jackets stepped out from the rear seats, positioning themselves casually along the narrow walkway.
“Mave, right?” Vance said, his voice oily and loud. “The famous waitress.”
Mave stopped. She didn't turn back, knowing the two men behind him would cut off her retreat. She kept her feet flat on the gravel, her posture erect.
“I’m missing my bus,” she said flatly.
Vance laughed, a sharp, unpleasant sound. “You can miss one bus. I just wanted to have a quick chat about our mutual friend, Mr. Gallagher.”
“I don't have mutual friends with Declan Gallagher,” Mave said. “I bring him black coffee when he sits in my section.”
“Is that all?” Vance sneered, stepping a foot closer. “Because word on the pier is that Gallagher’s got a soft spot for you. Word is he put his top enforcer on your street corner. Word is he’s paying your old lady’s hospital bills.”
Mave looked Vance dead in the eye.
“Word on the pier is wrong,” she said coldly. “I work for my money. Nobody pays my bills.”
Vance’s smile vanished. He reached out, his gloved hand moving toward her arm. “Listen to me, girl—”
Before his fingers could touch her coat, a sharp, heavy metallic sound echoed from the shadow of the nearby shipping container.
Colin stepped out into the daylight.
He was not carrying a gun in his hand. He didn't need to. He simply walked with the heavy, unhurried gait of a man who had killed people in dark places and felt no need to announce his presence with noise.
Vance’s hand froze in mid-air. The two heavy-set men behind him instantly reached inside their jackets.
“Vance,” Colin said, his voice entirely flat. “You’re on private union property.”
Vance sneered, trying to maintain his arrogant posture. “I’m standing on a public access road, Colin. Tell your boss he doesn't own the dirt.”
“I don't care about the dirt,” Colin said, coming to a stop three feet away. “I care about the girl. Walk away.”
Vance looked at Colin, then looked at Mave. A nasty, venomous smile spread across his face.
“See?” Vance said to Mave, gesturing at Colin. “He’s got you on a leash, sweetheart. You’re just Gallagher’s pet.”
Mave didn't look at Colin. She didn't look at the two men reaching for their weapons.
She looked directly at Vance.
“I am nobody’s pet,” she said, her voice dropping into an icy, measured tone that made Vance’s smile flicker. “And if you touch me again, I won't call Colin. I’ll take this heavy canvas bag and smash your teeth into the gravel.”
Vance blinked, genuinely stunned by the pure, unadulterated venom in her voice.
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Mave didn't wait for his reply. She stepped right between the two heavy-set men, shoving one of them out of her way with her shoulder, and walked briskly down the access road toward the bus stop.
Neither Colin nor Vance tried to stop her.
